I’m working too much. Worst of all, the job’s actually pretty good fun. Something I can get my teeth into, an activity that demands my full concentration for a goodly chunk of each day and leaves me spent and gary glittered after it’s over.
I’m pretty lucky. Most people don’t have jobs that’ll let them keep their last meal down
It’s a balancing act. Working at something that engages me steals time and energy I could be using to make shit up.
That said, my body (and mind) seem to finally be acclimatising to this summer’s chronic yellow-ball-in-sky syndrome. As a friend of mine pointed out recently, the human brain must have a maximum operating temperature and once that’s exceeded, galloping stupidity beckons.
I’ve mind-mapped out pretty much the whole of this month and I feel more confident about attacking that.


Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)


A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.